


Salvation

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Vampires, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 09:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20927666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The ring gives Frodo bad cravings.





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They stop under a rocky slope with just enough of an overhang to keep the downpour off their heads. It’s a miserable night, as almost every one has been since they parted ways with the company, but Frodo knows it still isn’t as awful as it could be. He’d counted on doing this _alone_, which now he knows would have been nearly impossible. He can’t sustain himself on animals alone. He barely has the strength to hunt. Lembas can’t give him what he needs. Sam can, and Frodo’s _so grateful_ for that.

But Frodo tries not to take advantage. He knows that Sam would do anything for him, which only makes it worse. When he huddles into the corner as tight as he can, shivering with cold and sore against the hard ground, he doesn’t let himself whine about his hunger. He’s _starving_. He doesn’t dare open his mouth, because he can feel the fangs pressing at the inside of his cheeks. He doesn’t want them to catch the moonlight—doesn’t want Sam to see them. They burn his tongue with _want_. He hates the ring most for that.

He’s sure that if he threw the ring away, the fangs would go away and never come back, no matter how long he went between feedings. His reflection would be clearer in puddles instead of murky and half-gone, and his night vision would dull, but the sun wouldn’t hurt so badly. He could be cured. But he can’t seem to put the ring down even for a moment. He clings to it even when he knows it’s killing him, and he listens to its vile whispers. 

Sam sits down beside him and can see it all. Frodo knows it. But Sam doesn’t _understand_, and that’s the important thing: he’s still relatively innocent. He murmurs low beneath the thundering sound of rain, “Would you like some lembas, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo shakes his head. That won’t satisfy him. They should save that all for Sam, who can’t live on anything but real food. Sam’s quiet for a moment, then tries, “Would you like me to... my... _you know_?”

Frodo swallows audibly. His throat feels parched. Even in the dim starlight through the curtain of water, he can see Sam’s blushing. Sam’s never gotten over the embarrassment of it, nor is he likely to ever; it always feel so _intimate_. Two proper hobbits would never get up to what they have. But then, a proper hobbit would kick Frodo aside and run. And Sam would never do that. 

Because he’s just as loyal, Frodo mutters, “No.” Sam looks at him quizzically, and Frodo’s head screams to just open wide and _do it_, but he pushes that down and insists, “I can’t do that again, Sam. It isn’t right.”

Sam murmurs, “I don’t really mind.”

Frodo doesn’t understand how that could be possible. He feels like such a monster. He can’t even blame the ring. He chose to be its bearer. He chose to involve Sam. Sam sidles closer to him, close enough to touch, and tells him, “Please, Mr. Frodo. I think you need it.”

“I won’t...”

A hand closes over his. It feels so _warm_. Sam’s more of a comfort than he’ll ever know. He squeezes Frodo’s palm and unfastens his cloak with his other hand, then starts tugging at his collar. 

Frodo whimpers. The sight shouldn’t be so intoxicating, but it _is_; it stirs his hunger and makes him feel ravenous. Desire gnaws at him with cruel claws that leave aching bruises. In that moment, Frodo _needs_ Sam. He gives in. He leans in as Sam arches towards him, and he spreads his mouth over Sam’s neck. 

He bites down. Sam’s breath hitches, and Frodo can feel him tensing, but that’s the only reaction. There’s no scream of distress, no desperate clinging, though Frodo’s sure it must hurt more than Sam’s letting on. He knows how sharp his fangs are. They slice through Sam’s skin with grace and ease, clamping on, and he sucks around them. Warm blood pools into his mouth. Frodo greedily drinks it down. He takes two creamy mouthfuls, then remembers who he’s holding, and he forces himself back. Sam grunts at his withdrawal. Frodo licks at the tiny holes left behind like a wounded puppy. They stop leaking but don’t fade. He can still see the scabs from his last bite. He murmurs hoarsely, “I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam slurs, “That’s alright, Mr. Frodo.” He sounds sluggish and husky but not pained. Frodo’s exhausted. He’s sated, satisfied, but only feels worse for hurting Sam.

He nestles into Sam’s chest, snuggling close, trying to soothe away the damage that he’s done. Sam gently tugs him down until he’s curled up with his head in Sam’s lap. He’s _so_ tired. He mumbles brokenly, “I’m so sorry.”

Sam shushes him and pets him until he falls asleep.


End file.
